Codename M for Marie
by E for Emma
Summary: Oneshot fic that corresponds to my other fic, Rise of the Satellites. Hotaru's daughter also has powers, but there are no enemies to fight where she lives. One leisurely night, though, that takes a dramatic turn for the worst...
1. Part 1

Codename M for Marie

Notes: This one-shot story corresponds to Rise of the Satellites, my other Sailor Moon fic. Though Hotaru is younger than the others, her daughter is younger than the Satellite girls, so this story takes place a few years later. And this is peppered with references to V for Vendetta, which is an awesome, awesome movie.

Part One

"Talking Points fervently believes that these men, these men who dare speak out against the country they live in, should probably just move to Cuba or China if they don't like it here. Why should they? They clearly hate our freedom…"

"That's quite enough of that, thank you very much," I said with obvious agitation, flipping through the channels until I found _The Daily Show with Jon Stewart_. I don't even know why I was watching Bill O'Reilly before. He just spews vitriol with everything he has. I swooped a generous layer of lip gloss onto my lips and pressed them together to ensure full coverage before backing up from my mirror to look at myself. I was, I must say, well-dressed for a punk show. I was sporting a purple tank top over a black-and-white striped long-sleeved shirt, a purple plaid skirt, purple stockings, and black boots. In addition, I ringed my eyes with kohl eyeliner and wore lip gloss.

I picked up my worn purple backpack, which was filled with essentials from my wallet to emergency rations (Goldfish crackers), and threw it over my shoulder as I turned my TV off and walked into the living room, where Mom and Dad were watching the exact same show. Mom was laughing her idiosyncratic Japanese-girl laugh. You know, that cute little giggle accompanied by the covering of the mouth. Dad was guffawing away like a hyena.

"Mom, Dad, I'm going now," I said.

"Okay, Marie, have a good time," Dad said between laughs.

"See you later, Marie," Mom said, smiling. I nodded, took my keys from the table near our front door, and left the house. It was a quiet November's night in Atlanta. My feet crunched multitudes of leaves with every step. I suddenly forgot what day it was, so I looked at my purple watch to tell me. Oh, that's right, it's November 5th.

_Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot._

_I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot. _

That's grammatically incorrect! It should be 'forgotten'! Ah, I'll forgive it this time. I trudged out to my car, a 1991 Honda Civic that has surely seen better days, and manually unlocked the driver's side door. I threw my backpack into the back, leaving the passenger seat open for Sarah, my best friend, to occupy once I picked her up. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and smiled at it before turning my key in the ignition.

I should probably describe myself now, shouldn't I? It would be the nice thing to do. My name's Marie Davidson. I'm 17 years old and I live in Atlanta with my mom and dad. My mom's full-blooded Japanese and my dad's a mix of Irish and Scottish, so I'm a combination of both. My eyes are almond-shaped, but they're blue, and I have fairly pale skin.

When I was about 14, Mom told me about some weird magical powers that she had that I probably have, too. She's a genetic biologist at the CDC. That's the Centers for Disease Control. You've probably heard of it before in the news because that's where they keep the anthrax, bird flu, and all those other terrible diseases. Those are kept underground. Anyway, Mom gave me what appeared to be a little stick-shaped toy and told me that I would know what to do with it when the time was right. I used that stick one time, I shouted out a phrase (Mimas Satellite Power, Make Up), and I transformed. My outfit changed and I gained these cool abilities. I haven't needed to use the stick since, but I carry it around with me because Mom told me to for safety.

Okay, I used the stick just once since then. It was the day that I was getting my stuff back from my ex. I went into his room, that toxic wasteland, and I hid in his closet to transform. When he came in to look for me, I jumped out and triple-slapped him! It was so cool. I just slapped him once, but the powers I had amplified the slap and I did it three times. I triple-slapped both his cheeks and then I kicked him where it really, really hurts on a guy.

I pulled up in front of Sarah's house, which is a charming little 1920s brick house kind of like mine, and got out of my car, walking up the path to her porch and front door. I pushed the doorbell three times, which is our official doorbell greeting for one another, and I heard her run down the stairs before throwing the door open. She was positively beaming with excitement about this show, from her pink-haired head down to her pink-booted toes.

"You look so cute!" I gushed.

"Same to you!" Sarah replied, snatching up a small purse and putting it over her shoulder. "I'm going now, Mom!" she shouted into the house before jumping onto the porch. "Hey, Marie. Ready to go?"

"You bet." I smiled and nodded, turning on my heel and walking back to my car. I automatically opened the passenger door first so Sarah could get in, and then I looped around the back of my car and jumped in the driver's seat. I turned my key again and Sarah immediately drew a confused look about my choice of music, the soundtrack to _V for Vendetta._

"Dude," she began. "We're going to a punk rock show, not a _V for Vendetta_ showing," she told me as she turned the CD off and started flipping through radio stations.

"You won't find any punk stations there," I said gravely.

"I know, so I'll get the next best thing." Sarah settled on a rap station that was currently playing a fairly old song by Outkast.

"Bombs over Baghdad?" I queried. Sarah nodded and began to dance, which was mainly just bobbing up and down in time to the music. "You're crazy."

"And that's why you're my friend," Sarah replied with a smile on her face as I negotiated a turn to put us on our way to the Masquerade.


	2. Part 2

Part Two

The Masquerade, how can I explain the Masquerade? Well, it's a club in Atlanta, I can say that. It's a fairly small wooden building that used to be a mill or something. It has three levels: Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Sometimes, three different bands will be playing at the same time, one for each area. That's the way it is tonight. There's a big parking lot right next door for all us car-happy Atlantans to station our vehicles in for the time being, but tonight they charged me five dollars just to park.

I'm not a really big fan of punk anymore. I used to be a few years ago. Now I like mostly the stuff they play on Dave FM—older rock songs (from the 70s, 80s, and 90s), though I'm really digging Gnarls Barkley's song "Crazy". But Sarah is still really into the punk scene and she doesn't have a car yet, so here I am. We waited in line to get in the venue next to a young couple that was furiously making out. It was nasty to witness because there was slobber and tongues and I really wanted to puke. Plus, the guy had those washer things in his ears that widen your earlobes. Those are the epitome of disgusting. I could feel the bile rising in my throat, so I turned to Sarah and tried to block out the noise of the couple.

The noise hit me the moment we entered the venue, as well as the temperature. Sarah was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and I already described my outfit, so we were adequately prepared for the obvious lack of a heating system, but some people were shivering as they entered.

"WHERE SHOULD WE GO?" I screamed to Sarah.

"HEAVEN," Sarah replied. "THE TRAP IS GOING TO PLAY UP THERE, I THINK. I DON'T KNOW WHEN." I nodded, only comprehending the word "Heaven", as I followed Sarah up a flight of creaky wooden stairs, feeling afraid that they would break. Heaven was only about as big as a large classroom, with a stage on one end and a little bar on the other that served water and a bevy of alcoholic drinks. It stank of cigarettes. Right now, a young man with an asymmetrical haircut was screaming incoherently into a microphone while a guitarist played the same chord over and over and the drummer was apparently playing Whack-a-Mole with his set.

Sarah peered at a schedule of bands printed on bright pink paper, running her finger over the band names until she settled on The Trap. That band, however, was listed as playing at Hell in a matter of mere minutes. I read Sarah's lips as she cursed before coming to my side.

"MARIE! THEY'RE PLAYING IN HELL IN A FEW MINUTES AND MY MAKEUP ISN'T READY." What is she talking about? It was fine! Oh, wait, she wants to impress The Trap's vocalist because she has this big thing for him. "COME WITH ME." She took my arm and led me down those rickety stairs, turning and leading me into the women's room. There was a woman who looked like Courtney Love applying bright red lipstick at one of the dirty mirrors, shifting under the binding of her corset. I've never understood corsets. As a feminist, I think they're just another way of subjugating women. Think about it! If your anatomy is all ruined, is that not subjugation?

Sarah stationed herself at the next mirror, opened her purse, and brought out tubes and bottles of various makeup products. She started to furiously touch up her already immaculate face while I picked at my cuticles and hummed "Crazy" to myself. When Sarah had finally primped herself to an acceptable point, she threw her stuff back in her purse, looked at her watch, and fluffed her hair out before leaving the restroom. Of course, I followed, though I was already feeling tired and really wanted to go home, sit in my comfortable bed, and watch _V for Vendetta _again.

Alas, I followed Sarah down to Hell, which also had a stage and a bar. There were a few clusters of people hanging around because it was that time between one band and another, when people on stage move equipment around and perhaps do microphone checks. Hell, too, stank of cigarettes. Plus, there was another couple making out near me. The girl was shoved up against the wall, making noises of approval as her inept boyfriend shoved his tongue down her throat. This is not my night.

I sat down Lotus-style and put my backpack down in front of me so nobody could see up my skirt, opening it up and digging around for my bag of Goldfish. As I dug, my hands ran up against something soft and silky. I looked in my bag and remembered that I had my Halloween costume still in my backpack. That day, I wore a cool feathered, sequined Mardi Gras mask and a big black cape over my normal clothing. I even wore it to school, though I was one of the very few that even bothered with dressing up at all (Sarah was absent that day with a cold, I know she would have dressed up too). Some people are just no fun at all.

I found the Goldfish right as The Trap took the stage, fronted by your typical punk boy—super thin (needs to eat some meat, if you ask me), snarling, bleachy-haired, eyeliner-wearing, torn-shirt, torn-pants, torn-boots, torn-up voice, you get the picture. I think he looks a little like a bum; Sarah, on the other hand, has been having dreams about him since she last saw him at Warped Tour in July. She has told me, in detail, about some of these dreams, and all I have to say is My God does that woman have one dirty mind.

Sarah squealed when the first note was played and scrambled to get right up front, which isn't that hard to do at an event like this. Now, at a concert with a big-name artist like, say, Gnarls Barkley, it would be impossible to get up front. I hate it up front. The moshing that people do makes me sick, plus I've been hit in the face before by some jerk that was crowd-surfing and started moving his feet around whilst doing so, so I pretty much hate it up front. I decided, for the time being, to stand off to the side and munch on some Goldfish.

Mmm, Goldfish.


	3. Part 3

Part Three

My conversation with a very friendly (that's Southerners for you, we're usually very friendly people) girl who was wearing a Gnarls Barkley T-shirt was going very well. I learned that she lived in the area, though she didn't go to my school. I learned that she liked Gnarls Barkley. I learned that her name was Kaytee and that it was often misspelled. I was about to learn more, but then The Trap said their thank yous and was about to vacate the stage when Sarah grabbed the hem of her shirt and swiftly lifted it up, taking her favorite pink bra with it. Kaytee saw my face blanch with sheer, utter fear while some jerks that weren't The Trap's vocalist cheered for my best friend's breasts.

"Sarah!" I barked. "What the hell does she think she's doing?" I asked Kaytee, who shrugged and looked away. My answer, though, was rhetorical, because in the next moment, The Trap's vocalist started gesturing wildly at Sarah, pointing in the direction of the parking lot and nodding. Sarah pointed in the same direction and nodded as well before taking the side door, meant only for the bands to use, out of the venue. "SARAH!" I screamed.

"Dude, you need to go out there and get her," Kaytee suggested. "Trey's a total horndog."

"Who's Trey?" I asked, shaking.

"The Trap's vocalist," Kaytee explained. "He has quite the following, if you know what I mean." I have an innate ability to read between the lines, so I immediately knew what Kaytee meant. I cursed under my breath and dashed out of Hell, back to the women's room.

I know I probably shouldn't be sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, but I care a lot about Sarah and I know she's actually very innocent and slightly naïve, despite her incredibly dirty dreams about Trey. Who knows what that scum bag will try to get her to do because she has this thing for him? I need to rescue her before he goes too far.

I ran into one of the stalls and slammed the door shut, locking it with shaking hands. I set my backpack down on the floor and started going through it to find my stick, which is purple with a white crystal on the end and about four inches long. Thinking I found it, I pulled a tampon free from the depths of my backpack, sighed, and threw it back in. I tried again, this time finding a pencil, and was becoming exponentially more nervous until I shoved my hand in deep and found it. Yes! Now, to transform. I'm sure other people are in here, so I need to be quiet.

"Mimas Satellite Power, Make Up!" I whispered, holding the stick high, but not high enough to bobble around over the top of the stall door. It worked, and I was swaddled in purple ribbons for a moment before emerging in what I've taken to calling my sailor outfit. It's a cute leotard sort of thing with a purple bow and sailor-style collar, a white button in the middle of the bow, a purple skirt with white hem, a long purple bow on the back, short white gloves with three purple bands, and purple ballet flat-type shoes. This would look so weird here, so I threw on my cape and tied it around me so you couldn't even see my arms or legs. I also put on my Mardi Gras mask, put my backpack on my back again, and exited my stall to find a completely empty women's room. I could have yelled my transformation phrase.

Oh well, there's a girl I need to save out there! I can't be bothered with such…things…as…you know what? I kind of look like V! I mean, my mask does cover my whole face, after all, leaving just a few holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth. It's black, gold, purple, and green, though, not white, and certainly not with a smiling face painted on. I'm also wearing a black cape, but I have my backpack on, which looks so obvious. I need to stash that in my car before I go searching for Sarah.

I left the venue through the front door, conscious that many people were staring at me and making remarks. Oh, if only they could see what was underneath this cape. I looked both ways before dashing into the parking lot, finding my car, and throwing my backpack in it. I shut the door with my foot and ran around to where the bands were told to park their vehicles. There were mostly white vans, like the ones you see repairmen putting around in, but there were a few small mobile homes as well. The vans tended to be brightly painted with band names, so I had to only look around for the one labeled The Trap.

The Trap has a mobile home. It's a nasty shade of taupe and has one of those tacky 1970s linear designs on the side, along with the name. Rambler Wagon. The Trap is painted above Rambler Wagon, but you can still see the original name peeking through. The mobile home is tiny, one of those kinds that you haul behind a pickup truck, the kind that usually just has a bed in it. I looked at the pickup truck, which was red though the paint was peeling with age. There was a nasty spot of rust right above the right rear tire. That will mess your car up like crazy if you don't try to do something about it. Like maybe getting a new car.

The door was shut and locked. I know this because I tried jiggling it. I cursed under my breath and stood there, trying to figure out what I should do. I feared just barging in because I might very well be interrupting something that doesn't mean to be interrupted, but I can't stand idly by while unspeakable things happen to my best friend.

Hmmm. What would V do in this situation?


	4. Part 4

Part Four

Sarah's Perspective

and the main reason this is rated T

Trey is just as I saw him in July, except his hair has grown slightly and he got a new lip piercing that is so incredibly yummy. After I flashed him, he gleefully brought me out here to what he calls the stock yards, where all the bands park their various vehicles. This one is big enough for just one bed. Trey explained to me that, while the band travels, one or two guys will sleep while the others stay up front.

He has a very deep voice that makes even the most boring conversations, like an incredibly long diatribe about getting lost on the way to Baltimore, so sultry and sexy to listen to. My heart is going crazy just sitting here, watching him speak. I just want him to stop talking for a moment so I can plant a kiss on those pierced lips of his, those pierced, full lips…

Right as he starts talking about paying tolls at a turnpike, I lunge at him and press my lips to his. It's kind of hard to get used to that piercing at first, but a few minutes in, I'm a pro. After a minute or two, he moves his tongue gently into my mouth, exploring the insides while he runs a hand through my perfectly fluffed hair, messing up its fluffiness. But that's okay. I put my tongue in his mouth, feeling like this is my heaven and I'm just having myself a bit of ambrosia.

Ooh, he really likes that. He's moving his hands from my head to my waist, encircling me tightly and pressing me close to him. He's sweaty from doing the show. I'm sweaty from jumping around so much while he did the show. There's not really that much of a difference, just a verb or two. Now he's moving me down onto the bed, an act that causes my adrenaline to rush and my heart to beat so fast that I feel like I'll die of ecstasy. I'm lying on my back, looking up at him, gazing into the eyes of my dirty punk angel.

"I've been dreaming of you," I said without thinking. God, how teenybopper does that sound? That sounds like something a 12-year-old would say to Justin Timberlake. Trey looks confused for a moment—Oh God, I blew my chances—but then he smiles.

"That's so cute," he remarks, making me blush. "What kinds of dreams?"

"Oh, the kind that makes my friend Marie blush," I told him. "She's kind of a prude."

"I'm not, baby," Trey reassured me. "I'm not." He paused to lick his lips seductively. "Take off your shirt. I want to see that perfect pair again." I gladly obliged, slowly peeling off my shirt before tossing it across the room, as it was. Smiling flirtatiously, I reached my back (I'm flexible) and unhooked my bra, sending it flying across the room as well. My heart wouldn't stop beating, beating, beating as Trey came up to me, pounced on me, started touching me all over…

I don't want to do this anymore.

I really don't want to do this anymore.

This is why my sexually explicit dreams are just that—dreams, scraps of thought cobbled together by my subconscious and thrown at me in a half-assed manner while I sleep. They're just thoughts, thoughts of things that I thought I would really want to do in reality. But as Trey starts to do things that make me thoroughly uncomfortable, all I want to do is go home. I want to go to sleep in my bed, watch some comedy shows, and dream of more innocuous things like riding ponies in fields of flowers or whatever it is I used to dream of as a little girl.

"No," I whimpered. "No," I repeated at a hoarse whisper. "No!" I said at a normal tone. "NO!" I shouted. "STOP IT, STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" Trey sat up.

"Or else what are you going to do, huh? Slap me? Kick me? Bitch, I've taken much, much worse in bar fights and lived to tell the tale. Your little slaps and kicks won't even hurt me. Now, shut up so we can do this thing." Do this thing? Bitch? Who does he think he is?

"I'm serious!" I cried. "Stop it, I don't feel comfortable anymore!"

"Too bad," Trey told me, snarling. Right as he was about to pounce on me again, I lashed out and kicked him square in the stomach. He was lying when he said I wouldn't hurt him—I distinctly heard the breath leave his sickening little lungs as he fell onto the floor with a satisfying smack.

"I hate you!" I screamed, on the verge of tears. "I hate you, I hate your songs, I hate your lip ring, I hate your ugly tattoos, I hate this bed, I hate this band, and most of all, I HATE YOU!" I heard Trey scramble to get to his feet as I got out of the bed, searching for my abandoned shirt and bra.

"Looking for these?" Trey asked, holding my necessary items aloft.

"Yes," I replied, which was the wrong choice, because he took my shirt, one of my favorite shirts, and ripped it in two with his bare hands! Tears overflowed from my eyes as he destroyed the shirt I bought when Marie and I went to Little Five Points for the very first time. There was a cherished memory of mine, gone forever, ruined by this terrible excuse for a person. He smirked as he took my bra, grabbed one cup in each hand, and tore the little middle part in half, effectively ruining a $35 bra.

"How about now?" he asked.

"You're evil!" I screamed, hugging myself to protect what modesty I had left. "You're rotten and all you want is sex! If you treat women so badly, don't be surprised if you never find a wife!"

"Good! I hope not, if all women are bitches like you!" Trey barked.

"THAT'S IT!" I lunged out at him, but he grabbed my wrists and held me there. I was trapped. Oh God, someone help me, someone please help me…


	5. Part 5

Part Five

The moment Sarah started screaming, I started to jiggle the locked door even harder than before. Much to my chagrin, it never budged, no matter how hard I tried. I heard her shout out 'That's it', which sounded like a very, very bad sign, and then I could take it no more. I hoped and prayed that this would somehow make the door open and I shoved my hands forward onto the door, which caused a burst of purple energy to come forth from my hands and break the door down. Who needs cops and their silly door-opening-devices when you have me?

I kicked the door to the side and watched as it struggled on its last remaining hinge before walking inside. Oh God, Sarah has no shirt on.

"Who the hell are you?" Trey asked. How polite. NOT.

"Who. Who is merely the function following what, and what I am is a young woman in a mask," I explained.

"Obviously," Trey replied. "I knew that."

"You probably did. I'm just remarking on how ironic it is that you're asking someone in a mask who they are." I shrugged beneath my cape. "But since you asked me who I am, I'll go ahead and tell you, just to be polite." I stood up straight. "Voila! Here she is, the magnificent, mysterious, marvelous, modern, mellifluous, majestic, monumental, master—or, mistress—clad within the depths of quite a lovely mask…" I paused to let those words sink in. "Young woman who fights against young men that deserve it, you may call me M."

"All right, M," Trey said tauntingly. "Now that you've introduced yourself, get out of here."

"I'm afraid I cannot because you will do terrible, unspeakable things to that innocent young woman if I do. Trey, Trey, Trey. You're quite a shame. Do you know what happens to bad boys?" I asked.

"Um…"

"They get punished." I dashed up to him as Sarah walked towards the door, held my hand back, and triple-slapped him, making him cry out in pain. I did the same for his left side before backing up so I could charge up my bigger attack. He balled his bony hands into fists, thinking he could punch me back, but right as he came towards me, I held my breath and imagined Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture playing in my head. I smiled, though he couldn't see it, and braced myself for my attack. Here it comes, like the train down the tunnel…

I shoved my hands forward and a humongous blast of purple energy, as tall as I am, shot forth and knocked Trey down. The air in his lungs escaped him as he collapsed, now rendered unconscious by my blast.

"Is he dead?" Sarah asked weakly.

"No, but he'll wish he were," I replied. "Are you hurt?"

"No, but I'm half-naked," Sarah observed.

"This is true," I replied suavely.

"Who are you, anyway?" Sarah asked.

"I told you, I'm the magnificent, mask-clad M."

"No, I mean under that mask." Sarah pointed to the mask.

"You don't want to know. It's grotesque and horrible."

"I've seen my share of grotesque and horrible things," Sarah replied, pointing to Trey. This made me laugh and I figured I'd tell her, but only because I could trust her with my life. I untied my cape and took it off, followed by my mask. "Marie?" she asked breathlessly. "Marie, what is that costume for?"

"Sarah, I have magical powers," I explained honestly. "My mom did, too, and she passed them down to me. I discovered them when I was 14 and used them only once when I had to get my stuff back from Joshua." I paused. "Well, and right now." Sarah looked at me with big eyes, waiting for proof, so I shot a smaller burst of energy at Trey.

"Holy crap," Sarah said in obvious awe. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack." I pressed my button and was covered in purple ribbons again for a moment before my normal clothes returned.

"That is so cool! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was afraid you'd laugh at me, but now you've seen what I can do." I smiled.

"That is so very cool, Marie. I have one question, though."

"Sure."

"Can I borrow your cape?"

"Of course." I handed it to her and she tied it on, covering her half-nudity.

"Let's go home," she suggested. "Actually, I want to go to your place for a while."

"Why so?" I asked as I left the mobile home.

"I kind of want to watch _V for Vendetta_ again. I had trouble understanding it when I saw it in the theaters. Plus, now I've seen you basically dress up like him and talk like him. I remember that monologue with all the V words pretty well."

"Yeah, that took a lot more talent than I have to produce. I was kind of ad-libbing my monologue."

"I can tell." I led Sarah back to my car. "Hey, Marie?"

"Yes?" I stopped and turned around to look at her right as I unlocked her door.

"Thank you for rescuing me."

"I'd do anything for you. You're my best friend." I patted her shoulder affectionately before she sat down, straightening my cape out as she buckled up. I got in the driver's seat, turned the key in the ignition, and switched back to the CD, flashing forward to a track that I added because it wasn't in the original. As I pulled out of the parking lot and away from the Masquerade, "Street Fighting Man" by The Rolling Stones began to play.

The End


End file.
